


The Watson Diaries

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Case Fic, Depression, Diary/Journal, Falling In Love, M/M, Missing Persons, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: Sherlock is hired to find a missing person. He was about to refuse when Harry Watson hands him the most interesting clue to solve the case: her brother's diaries.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 84
Kudos: 274





	1. Book 1, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授權翻譯】The Watson Diaries 華生日記](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743014) by [AnnSnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnSnape/pseuds/AnnSnape)



> I know, I know... Another fic... But in my defense, this one is already complete, so I won't be making you wait for weeks (months, years...) As per usual when this happens, I'll post a chapter a day, for the next five days! Please enjoy <3

Clients who wandered into 221B Baker Street for a missing person proved to be either the most boring of cases or the most interesting ones. If it wasn’t a teenager running off with his/her lover, or a man abandoning his family, or someone running away from debt collectors, it could turn into the most fascinating of chase. The woman he had allowed to blabber on about her brother until now had not managed to convince him to accept her case, but his interest was piqued when she dug out several slim notebooks from her overly large handbag -large enough to hide a standard sized bottle of alcohol, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Alright. I might not know my brother all that well. I mean, he’s been abroad most of these last years, you know, and we weren’t all that close to begin with, but I  _ know _ he wouldn’t just up and leave without a word. He’s not the sort. He doesn’t like to make people worry about him. He would have told me he was going somewhere for any length of time, but he just... disappeared! His stuff is still in his flat, he had an appointment with his therapist and even a job interview. He wouldn’t have missed that, believe me. But those bastards at the Met won’t do anything about it! They just filed some paperwork so I would go away, but I doubt anyone will even look into it.”

“You’re right, for once,” Sherlock said.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat so as not to look too interested in the notebooks, but his hands were itching to get a hold of the mysterious volumes.

“Fine then. If you don't believe me, read this and you'll know John wouldn’t have left of his own accord. Something happened to him. Please find my brother.”

Sherlock took his time to examine the notebooks: three of them, book sized with a hardcover and cream coloured pages. Surprisingly good quality for someone who was struggling to make ends meet. He flicked one open at random and read the first line that met his eyes.

[... like drama so much. If I really wanted to listen to someone natter on about people I’ve never met, I’d just watch the news and catch up on the latest scandal in the royal family.]

Sherlock snorted and closed the notebook, enjoying the puff of expensive paper and fresh ink that reached his nostrils.

“And how did you come across these… diaries?” he asked, letting his hand rest on the notebooks lest she realize the treasure she had just handed to him and try to take them back.

“That's what I don't understand. I got them through the mail. I know they’re John’s, I'd recognize his writing anywhere, but there wasn't even a note to… I don't know… explain?”

Sherlock sighed at her simple mindedness. Just because they belonged to her brother didn't mean he had been the one to send them. Not that he would tell her as much. He was not in the mood for tears right now and he still needed what little information she had.

“I imagine you read them? And they don't give away what happened to him?’

“Of course. I'm not an idiot.”

Sherlock bit back the retort that had almost leaped from his tongue like the lash of a whip and nodded. Let her make of that what she will.

“Well, mostly,” she amended. “I flipped through them and read the end. I think he was I involved in some shady business, but there was nothing to indicate where he was or who he was involved with.”

“And the Met wasn't interested in these notebooks?”

Surely, even those incompetents could solve a case with so many clues piling up page after page.

“I received them after I filed the missing person report for John, and given the way they dismissed me, there's no way I'm wasting these notebooks on them. I heard you were the best, so you'd better make good use of them.”

Sherlock stared at her, amused at whatever threat she thought she could hold over him, making her stew for a full minute before making his decision known. It was his favourite part, making his prospective clients hope and doubt in equal measure, watching them squirm until they looked away. Petty, yes, but so entertaining.

“I’ll take your case. Don’t contact me. I’ll text you if I find anything.”

“Text me?” she puzzled, her eyebrows drawing together.

“Are you deaf as well as alcoholic?”

“I… no,” she muttered and hugged her handbag against her.

So he had been right. Sherlock could see her repressing her anger so he wouldn’t change his mind and refuse the case. He smiled even wider. People were so easy to rile up. They were like brainless little puppets. You just had to know which strings to pull and you could make them do anything. 

With her client and her abysmal perfume out of the door, Sherlock threw himself backwards onto the sofa and flipped through the notebooks again. As he thought, there were no dates but it was child’s play to sort them into chronological order by paying attention to how faded the ink was. His task done, Sherlock began reading to learn all he would need to know about the missing John Watson. Maybe he could solve the case from the couch without even having to get dressed. That would be a new accomplishment even if the case proved to be boring after all.

[My therapist wanted me to write in a blog. It's easy enough, and free. I created a page, put in a title… The cursor blinked impatiently so I typed a few words, erased them, typed something else, watched the cursor blink, bink, blink... and then I wondered why the hell I'd want anyone reading it. My thoughts, how I feel, what happened to me, or not, the people I met, or not, if I'd slept last night or had another nightmare… Why would I want  _ anyone _ to witness my life. Isn't it pathetic enough as it is? 

I forgot about it for a while. Ella nagged me like the good therapist she is, so I pretexted I'm an abysmal typist, which I am. I type with my index fingers and let me tell you, it's slow going. I feel like a blind pigeon pecking for crumbs.

I didn't like the medium, but the idea had some merit. So, when I walked by this library today and saw they had these old notebooks for sale, I couldn't resist. There's something about the pen gliding smoothly across thick paper, leaving wet dark ink in its wake that's oddly relaxing. Sensual too, if I have to be honest, although I couldn’t begin to explain why. Of course, you need a good pen for the full experience and I only had those free plastic horrors they give out at shops. So yeah, I bought a fountain pen too. Which wasn't on sale. Damn you, you evil library clerk, for tempting me beyond my means. I'll just have to eat pasta for the rest of the week.]

[I'm never eating pasta again. Another thing I'm not doing is handing my notebook over to my therapist. She berated me for not using the blog again. Talk about being persistent. I did update it, actually, just for her too, but according to her, the one sentence I wrote does not count. It was hard to keep a straight face when I told her it took me a good fifteen minutes to type it out. Not sure she believed me. I'll write another so she gets off my back for a while, but I'm guessing she'll write down I'm not cooperating. It'll be a welcome change from her usual “trust issues”. It's not even challenging reading her notes upside down anymore. But I guess she has a point, I don't trust her with this- fuck… I'm not calling this notebook a diary. No way. Makes me feel like some goddamned angsty teenage girl confessing about her latest crush on paper. Next thing you know I'll be doodling little hearts in the margins and hiding it under my pillow.]

Sherlock snorted. So that's why Watson had blotted out the first line of the page. It had been the date of the first entry, but in his efforts to make it less of a diary and more of a… mind-dump, he supposed, the man had obliterated the evidence until even Sherlock hadn't been able to decipher it. Watson also said he didn't intend for anyone to read his not-diary, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel like the man was doing exactly what he said he loathed: addressing an audience, the one and only consulting detective in the world as it turned out, hired by his own sister to find him. It was a strange feeling since he usually didn't have access to the missing person until they were found, but it was an interesting puzzle, a one of a kind experience.

Enjoying himself entirely too much, his curiosity bubbling up like it hadn't done in a while, Sherlock reached for his phone on the table and searched for the blog in question in order to fill up the information John had hinted at, but not given, in his journal.

The page was easy enough to find. Mostly empty, as promised, but the first entry gave him a time frame for when the notebook had been started, about six months ago. The page comprised pointless posts about literally nothing: a meetup with some friends, something about a girl, then about the news… The persona John Watson displayed in public was much more boring than the one he discovered in his notebook. Was he shy? Or did he have something to hide? 

Sherlock hoped it was the latter as he scrolled through the comments to dig for more information. He was surprised when he glimpsed a familiar name: Mike Stamford. Where had he heard the name before? It couldn't be too important… A celebrity maybe? A politician? Sherlock scowled, annoyed that a clue was evading him, but if he had deleted it, it couldn't be too important. However, Sherlock pinned the name in a corner of his mind-palace for future reference. For now, he wanted to learn more about this Watson fellow who was as entertaining as he had hoped. It was a nice way to stave off boredom until a better case came along.

[The job interview did not go well. Again. I’m not sure what bothers them the most: the cane, the tremors or that I was a soldier? None of which make me any less of a good doctor.]

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected information. How stupid could his sister be that she hadn’t told him he was an army doctor? She must have babbled on for over twenty minutes about his phone and his potted plant, but nothing about his medical degree? Out of jealousy maybe? Or because he was unemployed? Sherlock rearranged a few facts in his mind and resumed.

[If I could just show them what I can do, they’d hire me on the spot. If anything, I’m overqualified. Maybe I should just shoot the next person interviewing me and then patch them up. I'd get the job. Of course, I'd have to go to jail first, which might be counterproductive. When I think most of this locum work is just scrapes and colds...I could take care of that in my sleep…

I have the skills! Isn't that all that should matter?]

“It is,” Sherlock agreed, then felt foolish for talking out loud to a book whilst he wasn't even high. He blamed Watson. The man had a knack for making you think he was talking directly to you, like a friend.

[All I want is a bloody job! I think… maybe I'll widen my job search. They're always looking for help in shops, pubs… I'll find something. Anything. All I know is that I can't keep walking around in circles in my room day after day with nothing to do, nothing to look forward to. Alone. Not after what I've done, what I've seen, the places I've been… I'll go crazy. Sometimes, I think I might just  \----]

Sherlock huffed. Watson had done it again. Obliterated whatever he'd meant to say under a thick layer of ink, and none of his tricks would reveal the words. Three or four at most. Given the first part of the sentence, it could hint at outbursts of anger, violence, or suicidal impulses. Any of which could shame him enough that he'd felt the need to censure his own not-diary. Interesting. But he wondered… had Mrs Watson really skimmed through the notebooks? There was a lot she had not told him. Was she truly as worried as she'd pretended? But then why go through the trouble of hiring him? He was undoubtedly the best for such a case, which should mean she did want her brother found. In conclusion…

“She's either lazy, or an idiot,” he told his skull sitting across the room on the chimney.

He'd have to ask Watson when he found him, but chances were he knew his sister as little as she knew him. Not that it was uncommon. He’d seen it often enough and it happened just as often between spouses who saw each other every day. After all, how well could you know someone if you couldn’t know what went on in their funny little brains? With his powers of deduction, he could know more than most, and yet, how well could he claim to know Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade or… Well he wasn’t going to make a list of everyone he knew. He knew a lot of people.

“Stop staring at me,” he told his skull. “I do.”

[I met up with a bunch of the old crowd at the pub tonight. I don’t know why. I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn’t stand the blank walls staring back at me a minute more. Turns out hanging out with other veterans with the same issues as you is an even worse idea, and what they say isn’t true: misery doesn’t love company, or at least, mine doesn’t. My misery craves something else: happiness, companionship, purpose. Is that too much to ask?

Only a couple of the guys seemed well adjusted to civilian life and they stuck out like sore thumbs in our midst. I didn't even know them, they came in with Loud Phil. Poor bloke doesn't own his nickname now since I barely heard a peep out of him.

I sneaked out as soon as I could. They’re not the people I used to know. Makes sense: I’m not the person I used to be.]

[Harry called in the middle of the night. Drunk. Crying about Clara and how she wants to win her back. Told her drinking herself into an early grave is not the way to go about it. In fact, I’d wager that’s exactly why she left, but reasoning with a drunk Watson is like playing chess with a wall: a complete and utter waste of time. I’ll call her back when she’s sober.]

[Harry ignored my calls. Probably realizes she made an ass of herself last night.]

[Today is a good day. I finally got a job at this small surgery. It's a bit out of the way, and only part-time locum work, but anything is better than waiting around doing nothing while my savings, as well as my sanity, run out. I'm so relieved. Any longer and I was thinking I might have to leave London. Even this place is terribly expensive despite not being much better than a chicken coop, all living on top of each other with paper thin walls.

So I celebrated by treating myself to lunch out. I even picked up the waitress’ phone number while I was at it. The limp and tremors weren't so bad today either. Maybe because the weather was so nice.

So yeah, today is a good day.]

This perky version of Watson irritated Sherlock. Not that he wished him ill - _ lies,  _ his skull seemed to say- but he was a lot less entertaining whilst content with life.

[I think London hates me and wants me gone. The guy who gave me the job yesterday called back this morning to say it had been a mistake and that I wasn't needed. I don't believe it.They were clearly understaffed, but what can I do? To top it off, it sounds as if I have new neighbours whose sole purpose is to listen to the most annoying music ever created in the loudest way possible. I went there to politely ask them to shut the fuck up, to which he politely told me to go do something anatomically impossible with myself. I’d know, I’m a doctor.]

Sherlock found himself chuckling again. Watson had a very snarky sense of humour. He’d probably giggle at crime scenes. Lestrade said it wasn’t proper and part of the reason why everyone called him a freak, but he was struck with the sudden certainty that this man would have shared his amusement over the bright green body he’d been called in to investigate too.

In his mind, John Watson had taken the physical form of a male version of his sister, but tanned, obviously, due to his long tours under the Afghan sun, and with a military haircut which had grown out from the lack of upkeep. Of course, he could be mistaken. He and Mycroft certainly looked nothing alike, and he had no guarantee Mrs Watson had been faithful to her husband. It happened more often that people liked to be informed of.

However, Sherlock feared the crinkling dark blue eyes of his imagined John Watson might be a lie. He once more mentally berated the sister for providing so little vital information to him. She probably didn’t even have a recent picture of her brother. In fact, he would put this deduction to the test.

**I need a recent picture of your brother. -SH**

The delay in her reply was answer enough, but Sherlock read the text, just to be comforted in his brilliance.

**I don’t have one. John doesn’t like having his picture taken. -Harry Watson**

Flimsy excuse, but he expected as much. There hadn’t been a profile picture of him on his blog either, which was no surprise given how much he disliked using it. A quick google search yielded nothing more than a few old, grainy pictures of him in a group shot, and he could have been any one of the blurry figures. Looks like his sister wasn’t making up excuses after all. John Watson was camera shy. Sherlock could hack into the military database, but he didn’t want Mycroft to know what he was investigating. The git already had too much control over his life. No need to hand him over information so freely. So, he would look for a picture at the source. His sister had given him John’s address but she had no spare key, not that he needed one. He hadn’t been serious about solving the case from the couch anyway.

Sherlock sprang up from the couch and slammed the door shut behind him. However, he was back a minute later. Mrs Hudson had intercepted him at the door, scolded him for making a ruckus at two in the morning and told him that if he insisted on going out, he should get dressed first.

“And don’t forget your shoes, dear!” she added, her voice drifting up from downstairs.

She had a point. Sherlock made himself presentable, and, on a whim, put the notebooks in his coat’s large pockets before leaving. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back as he sometimes got sidetracked during a case. This way, he could continue learning about John Watson during the cab ride.

[I’m almost afraid of calling the cute waitress since everything has gone pear-shaped lately. Will it be a fake number? Will she laugh at me for believing she was interested in me? I should have known better than to believe things were finally picking up for me. I'll throw the number away. I won't call. I won't be the one hammering the last nail in my own coffin. Let there be hope!]

But there, tucked between the pages was a phone number, written in loopy numbers on a paper napkin. The waitress’, no doubt. It looked like Watson was still holding onto hope, despite being a very pessimistic fellow. Not that Sherlock blamed him. In his experience, the world was not a very nice place, and optimistic people were either simpletons or so naive, they bordered on delusional.

[I bumped into one of the guys who came to the pub with Loud Phil, one of the two veterans I didn't know. Don't remember his name, and I didn't want to ask him outright because… well, that's rude, right? But he ignored my polite prompting for it too, which is just as rude and raised all manners of red flags.

It almost looked like he'd accidentally bumped into me _ on purpose. _ Yes, I know what it sounds like, and no, I'm not being paranoid. The guy called me by my full title when I'm certain no one gave it out back then. I mean, it was a casual night at the pub with the old crew, we call each other by our nicknames, like Loud Phil and Tiny Tom and Grey Worm. I distinctly recall being greeted as Doc and only that. He shouldn't have known my rank or name. Thankfully, my former moniker seems to have been buried for good this time.]

Sherlock would find out what that was. For the case. He loved nothing more than to dig up embarrassing secrets. He wondered about Grey Worm, too. The other two were pretty self-explanatory, but the latter prompted so many questions: was it something he ate? A likeness to the animal? To himself or one of his body parts? With a shake of his head, Sherlock deleted that train of thought. Whatever was happening to Watson was far more interesting.

[The bloke was clearly ex-military too. He knew exactly what to ask me to suss out just how unhappy I was with my situation right now. He even hinted at knowing more about my military experience than he should. I’ll have to remind Phil about keeping his gob shut along with the definition of “classified”, but he had never been good at keeping secrets, not even his own, hence the nickname, the amount of trouble he always got into and his two divorces.

I should feel bad Phil’s life makes me feel better about myself.

Anyway, back to the bloke with no name. He sympathises with me, knows all about how difficult it is for veterans to reinsert themselves into the normal civilian humdrum and hands me his card.

“Call me if you need work. We could use someone with your skills.”

Except I can imagine the sort of work he means by that, and whether they want the doctor or the soldier, I'm guessing none of it is quite legal. The question is: am I desperate enough?]

  
  



	2. Book 1, Part 2

“Here you are, guv’. That's the place right there.”

Sherlock looked up at the building: old, poor upkeep, but surprisingly clean. Finding John Watson’s room was child's play, and picking the lock even more so. He couldn't fathom why the tenants here even bothered, because, despite the locks being up to date with today’s standard security, they didn't do much good on the paper thin doors.

John Watson’s “home” was… underwhelming. It was bland, empty, and quite frankly, boring. It was a lot like the John Watson his sister had described, but nothing like the one he'd gotten to know through the notebooks, so there had to be secrets lurking just beneath the tidy surface. 

A bit  _ too _ tidy. Sherlock might have guessed OCD-tidy if he hadn't known about Watson's military background, and that he simply had too much free time on his hands. He chuckled upon seeing the pen lying perfectly parallel to the table’s edge on one side and the notepad on the other. Military precision indeed. In fact, everything in the small bedsit was perfectly aligned… Sherlock turned on himself… except for the nightstand drawer, just slightly askew, as if it had been pushed back in a hurry or with too much force. 

Sherlock pulled it open with some difficulty. Whatever had been hidden there was gone. He leaned over it to inhale deeply, his eyes closed in concentration: oil, metal, powder…. A gun, without a doubt. Watson was becoming more interesting by the minute. Now, where would he tuck away his souvenirs? He wouldn't have many, and he was a private man, but he wouldn't want to have them too easily accessible for the same reason he hadn't hung up a single picture: too maudlin, to be polite, too nostalgic. So… in the bottommost dresser drawer or on top of the kitchen cupboard. It would depend on how tall he was, but given his sister’s unimpressive stature, Sherlock would have to bet on the kitchen since Watson would have to go through the bother of using a chair to reach it.

Of course, Sherlock easily plucked the small dusty shoebox from its hiding place without the help of the solitary chair. He put it on the scarred kitchen table and reverently took the lid off. It was so nice to be right.

He flipped through many pictures: family, friends, school friends, girlfriend, family, distant family, colleagues, oh… boyfriend. Well, he hadn't anticipated  _ that, _ but never matter, because here were the army-era pictures he'd been looking for, and he soon spotted John Watson. Not as close in appearance to his sister as he'd thought, but close enough that there was no mistake possible, and that the mental image he'd build of the man was not too rattled: Watson looked kinder, his features softer than he'd thought possible for a man in his line of work; smaller and leaner too. In fact, his whole appearance screamed mild mannered country doctor more than adventurous soldier. Sherlock suddenly understood why everyone, including his sister, believed in the boring persona he projected.

“Definitely interesting,” Sherlock murmured as he took the lone photo in which Watson was clearly visible before closing the box.

Now that he had an accurate picture of Watson for his mind palace, Sherlock couldn’t wait to read what happened to him next. He didn’t, however, want to go through the bother of relocating, so he naturally threw himself into the perfectly made bed as he would his own sofa. What he didn’t expect was the alien smell of another person assaulting him. Of course there would be the lingering smell of the bed’s occupant, even if he had disappeared for close to a week. Thankfully, it wasn’t a disagreeable one: soap and detergent, cheap but efficient, mixed with the unique eau-de-Watson. It was another, very personal, way to know the man and he commited it to memory in case it came in handful later on during his investigation. 

[And the answer is no. I’m not quite that desperate, not yet anyway. I can still pay rent for a couple of months if I’m careful, but I’ll keep his card. Just in case.]

Sherlock checked in between the pages but there was no card of the sort to be found, so he guessed Watson had either thrown it out in the end, or had kept it on his person to use it.

[I got a job as a bouncer if you can fucking believe it. They weren’t convinced when they saw me hobble along to the office for the interview, so I told them to have a go at me. Their incredulous look was amusing enough, but once they accepted and the other bouncer let his fist fly was the most fun I’d had in a while. Now they understand a cane can actually be an asset, so I’m hired, limp and all.

Not quite what I’d expected to be doing once I was discharged, but I can’t afford to be picky right now. Besides, it’s a night-club which means my days are free for job hunting. I’m starting tonight so… good luck me!]

[The things people do when they’re drunk… I think I should solemnly pledge never to drink again, but I know I won’t hold to it, so I’ll just promise never to be inebriated enough that I’m trying to make out with a mirror, which is quite narcissist, now that I think about it. And messy, since he was a slobbery kisser. I’m just glad I’m not the one cleaning the place, because if that's what clubbers get up to in public, I don't want to imagine what happens in the darker corners.

The night wasn’t too bad. A few guys thought they could push me around, but I quickly disabused them of the notion. After that, it was mostly dealing with the drunkards. Sounds like a week-end at Harry’s, right?

The music is horrendous though, and the party goers all look so… young. Kids, really. Some of them even called me Gramps. I guess I suddenly got old somewhere in between my tours in Afghanistan. I’m not sure whether to be offended or relieved they won’t be hitting on me.]

Sherlock looked at the picture he’d stuck between the pages as a placeholder, but the man hardly looked old. Of course, that was before the wound and depression, which might have taken a toll on him, so Sherlock adjusted his mental image of Watson once more to take those factors into account.

[I got fired! Yeah, I know: that was quick. In my defense, I’m innocent. I’ve been working as a bouncer there for a week: never late, I get along with everybody, even the boss, and I get the job done. So what’s the problem you ask? I don’t have a fucking clue. I got my paycheck, but no explanation, and the boss looked shifty, as if he was afraid someone was looking over his shoulder. I'd say he was scared, but of what? Of who?]

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was seeing a pattern here, even if Watson wasn't yet. He could not be absolutely sure of his deduction because he needed another similar event to validate his hypothesis, but it sure looked as if someone was making certain John Watson did not find or maintain a job.

From the few clues Watson had unwittingly left, Sherlock knew of two nightclubs he might have been working at: Pandora’s Box and The Crystal Bar. As for the surgery, he only knew it was small and out of the way, but still in London, so he would have to go door to door on that one. Good thing he had a picture of the missing man now. It would make the whole process less tedious: when he showed up unannounced waving the picture of someone and asking questions, people automatically assumed you worked for the police. And in case of trouble, he only had to flash Lestrade’s borrowed badge. Worked every single time.

The question was: should he go now, or read more of Watson’s not-diary? The answer came to him in the form of the jingle of keys and a gruff voice muttering: “Like I care, just empty the room or pay rent.”

A lazy glance at the door confirmed that it was Miss Watson with a stack of cardboard boxes under her arm.

“Mr Holmes? How did you-" she looked between him and the door, then shook her head. "Oh, never mind. I’m just packing my brother’s stuff. I’ll take it back to my house in case you need to go through it?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I have everything I need for now.”

“I’m not giving up on him, mind. It’s just that the rent is paid until the end of the week, but I can’t come at a later date to pack up because I have so many meetings you wouldn’t-”

Sherlock tuned her out. He couldn’t fathom why she was telling him all this as it was of so little interest, and just in case she thought of inflicting more of her insipid babble on him, Sherlock left the bedsit in search of the surgery Watson had not been hired at.

“Uhm... He does look familiar. Is he famous?” asked yet another simple-minded secretary.

“No,” Sherlock drawled out. “He might have applied to work here as a GP?”

“Oh. Oh, yes! I remember him now. I thought he’d be working here, but then he didn’t show up.”

“So he was hired then?”

“I...think so? You’d have to ask Dr Jenner. He’s the one who takes care of that. I just take appointments for the patients. Oh! Dr Jenner!”

Sherlock heard a loud sigh behind him and turned to see a white haired man in a white blouse frowning at the young secretary.

“Yes, Lidya? Did you forget how to turn on the computer again?”

“No, no, I wrote that down like you told me. This man works for the police and wants to ask you about that man you hired…”

Sherlock didn’t correct the woman for her assumption and flashed Watson’s picture instead. He could tell the doctor recognized him immediately, but unfortunately, he didn’t try to lie about it, which made for a very boring investigation.

“Yes. I remember him. I hired him, in fact, but he called a couple of days before he was due to start to say he’d found a better position. A bit rude, if you ask me, but what can you do?”

“He called you himself? You’re positive?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I assumed it was him, and he didn’t show up… Is there a problem?”

“According to Mr Watson, you’re the one who changed your mind about hiring him and now he’s missing.”

Dr Jenner looked alarmed at the news.

“I promise you I have nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock could detect no lie in the man and hoped he’d have better luck at the nightclub because whoever was behind this deception had been smart, leaving no leads for him to follow up on.

Sherlock checked his watch when he left the surgery. The nightclubs would be closed at this hour, except maybe the cleaning staff, and they wouldn't know about Watson. Sherlock needed a place to wait until evening so he could resume reading the Watson diaries, and since St Bart's was his closest haunt, he headed there. Molly could make him some coffee.

“Here you are, Sherlock, just the way you like it,” Molly said, hands shaking with excitement.

Sherlock took the mug slowly, not wanting to look too eager, because she did make the best coffee, if he had to be honest. Then he wondered why she was still standing there, looking at him like he had something on his face.

“Don't you have people to cut up?” he asked, hoping she would go look at someone else.

“Oh. Yes. Plenty. I'll just… go?”

Was she asking for permission? Good grief, she was complicated. Best ignore her in case she felt obligated to make small talk. They both had better things to do, and he always seemed to get both the answers and the questions wrong. Laying the notebook carefully on a clean counter, Sherlock found the place he'd left the photo/page-marker at and lay it aside.

[I don't know why I bother sometimes, and then, bam, out of nowhere comes something sweet and unexpected. That’s right, I have a date with this lady who was making eyes at me across the bus. A pretty brunette. I’ve always been partial to brunettes. And this, right here, is why I can’t write this in a blog, dear Miss Therapist, because you’d read it and think I was hitting on you. So there, I’m right and I’m a better therapist than you.]

Sherlock had to agree on that. His therapist seemed particularly inept at doing anything except stating the obvious. He considered briefly breaking into her office to go through her more personal notes on John Watson, but he had a much more sincere and direct line to the deepest recesses of the man's mind right here. And yet, Watson still held back. Sherlock could feel there was still a filter in his words, in the knowledge that putting pen to paper invited an audience one day or another, even if it was only a future self. Not that he’d been wrong to be weary, as evidenced by his own hungry eyes devouring his words.

[I’m not sure what happened…]

The writing was more sloppy than usual, the nib digging deeper in the page than ever before, belying Watson’s frustration, his anger even. What had happened during his date to put him in such a state?

[It’s been a few days. I needed to cool off, get some perspective on the most horrid date I’ve ever had the misfortune to go on, and that’s saying a lot (looking at you Betty the Barf). It started well enough. She greeted me with a smile at the cinema, as planned. I know, it’s a bit lame for a date but I’m broke and it’s a good way for two strangers to relax in each other's company while still having a lot to discuss after the movie that doesn’t venture into the typical questions about where she’s from, what she’s done, about her family… because honestly, who cares at that point? It’s a first date. I just want to know if there's some chemistry between us, if out personalities click...

Turns out it’s more like they crashed and burned. She’s insufferable, and I’m not using that word lightly. I thought of a dozen ways to kill her, get rid of the body and never be suspected of anything, and that’s the only way I managed to suffer through the date.]

Sherlock liked him better with every word. Practical man, this John Watson. He just wished he had shared his murder plans in order to know if Lestrade really could not have pinned the murder on him, or if a far superior detective, say like himself, could have. Sherlock had yet to meet his match, after all. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if the man he had been hired to find turned out to be his nemesis?

[I mean, who talks all through the film and only to complain? Who doesn’t turn their phone off? Who goes twice to the bathroom? (Well, no, okay, I’ll give her that one. Maybe she suffers from a pathology I didn’t diagnose.) Who demands her date to go buy her some popcorn, then a drink, then some candy, and so on every godamn fifteen minutes? I don’t even know what the film was about. It could have just been a terrible date if it had ended there. We could have simply called it an obvious mismatch and cut our losses, but no. She insisted on going for a drink to get to know each other better. I felt I knew more about her than I ever needed to, but damn me, I’m too much of a gentleman. 

We didn’t talk about the film, which would have been difficult on my part, I admit. First, she nattered on about some sort of feud with her sisters… I think. If I understood correctly, it started with a dress of all things. I don’t know why people like drama so much. If I really wanted to listen to someone natter on about people I’ve never met, I’d just watch the news and catch up on the latest scandal in the royal family. She must have felt my lack of interest after a while, but instead of getting the hint, she said she wanted to know more about me and asked a few pointed questions. She didn’t like what she was hearing, and was quite loud and vocal about it: ranting about how I was basically a penniless loser without a future, and how did I expect her to be interested in such a bore?

Then she left me there. With the tab.

I must have been bright red. I don’t know. It was kind of a haze getting out of that place with every pair of eye fixed on me. I don’t think I’m ever going out again. Nope. Not worth it. She’s right. I suppose I’m not worth it either.]

Sherlock winced. That was harsh and uncalled for. It was so over the top, in fact, that Sherlock suspected it was as natural as the man getting fired all the time. Patterns, patterns… Where was that waitress’ number? He flipped back through the pages, plucking it out of one of the earliest entries. He needed to make sure, to accumulate data.

Phone. Out of batteries. Of course. Always when you need it most. And where was Molly when you needed her? But there was someone else here, across the room, who was working on his own papers. Grading maybe. He would do.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sherlock! How are you doing? Not poking bodies with Molly today? I think she has a bloated one.”

The man was very familiar and his smile sincere, but Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him recall his name. He obviously belonged here, worked with Molly… Maybe he should not delete him this time, if he proved useful.

“Fine, thank you…” He was practically sure it started with an M.

“Mike,” the man provided with a chuckle, as if it happened every time, and maybe it did.

“Exactly. Can I borrow your phone. My battery expired.”

“Sure. Want me to plug yours in while I’m at it? I keep a charger in my bag. Happens to me all the time.”

Sherlock nodded, and Mike approached to exchange their phones. As he did, his eyes glided over what he was working on, and he froze. A spark of recognition, then hesitation. Sherlock plucked the picture from the counter, and handed it to Mike. Given the thickness of his glasses, his eyesight could not be good.

“Do you know this man?”

“If my mind isn’t playing tricks on me, that’s John Watson. With a few years more, sure, but we go back, studied together. Here, in fact. Of course, I got fat and he got a sun tan, but that’s him,” he said with a decisive nod before realizing that him, the consulting detective, having the picture of an old friend, could not be a good thing. “Why? What happened to him?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. His sister hired me. He disappeared a week ago.”

Mike then began the usual litany of “oh, noes” and “dear God”, so Sherlock tuned him out. Mike… what were the odds? The Mike on the blog he had puzzled about.

“Mike Stamford?”

Mike stopped babbling and gesticulating.

“Yeah… that’s my name...”

Sherlock hummed in satisfaction. That was one mystery solved.

“And you haven’t heard of John Watson since he enrolled?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. He’s a real nice bloke, John. He came around a couple of times when he was on leave, but that was during his first tour. His visits got few and far between after that. I think he liked it better overseas, to be honest. Sorry I can’t help more, but I know you’ll find him. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

Stating the obvious, but correct. Sherlock dismissed Mike Stamford and called the waitress’ number.

“Yeah?” came a gruff voice. 

Male, Forty. Heavy smoker. Not from London. And no manners at all: was that any way to answer your phone?

“How long have you had this number?” he demanded.

“Who is this?”

Sherlock sighed at the inane question. What did it matter if he was the next door neighbour or the Queen of England? It wouldn’t change the answer. Unless he lied. How could he make sure this idiot wouldn’t lie? Watson’s story seemed like his best option. The truth, then. How… novel. Sherlock cleared his throat and modulated his voice to a more pleasant tone.

“This banging hot chick gave me her number but you’re not her, so see my problem here, mate?”

The raucous laugh at the other end of the line was answer enough, but he needed to be thorough so he waited him out.

“Better luck next time then, buddy. Just got this number so guess she changed her mind, eh? Bitches, right?”

“Quite,” Sherlock concluded and hung up.

A useless phone number, what he’d wager was a fake date, a third occurrence would be perfect to confirm the trend, but it seemed Watson had sworn off dating. However, this happening alongside his string of bad luck finding a job… No, it couldn’t be coincidence. Someone was making sure Watson was beaten down, and stayed down. But why? And who?

[No money, no love, and no cane. I can’t believe the cruelty of some people. Who steals a cane? I don’t walk around with it for fun. I  need it, just like I need money and love. Who doesn’t? And now I have nothing. I can’t even get a new one. I’m pathetic.]

When Sherlock had said “beaten down”, he hadn’t meant it literally, but someone obviously had. He didn’t like the tone of that last entry. Sherlock had been sure Watson would rebound from that horrible date. It was, after all, just a first date with someone he neither knew nor respected, and who took a cheap shot at his ego. This, however, was much more personal: taking something he despised but needed, something he couldn’t replace, the absence of which would have consequences on both his mental and physical health. Gone was Watson's usual wit, funny even when self-deprecating. All he could feel here was despair.

[I’m not going out. I should. I need milk, and food, but I don’t have the energy. I don’t want to limp around, having to stop halfway down the street because my leg hurts, struggling to get the groceries back, and then spending half the day massaging the muscles in my leg so it won’t cramp up. It’s ridiculous. I wasn’t even shot in the leg.]

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. Maybe he  _ should _ break into his therapist office. Watson had mentioned a hand tremor earlier, so he must have been shot in the arm instead. So why the bum leg? Psychological issues? War trauma? PTSD? 

_ Why do you have to be so interesting all the time, John Watson? _

[Therapist has been harassing me. Think it’s not far to say she’s threatening me.]

Sherlock scowled at the page in worry. Now, Watson wasn’t even bothering to use a proper pronoun for himself, and either he still retained some of his humour, albeit the darkest shade of it, or he was developing episodes of paranoia.

[Pills, pills, pills. Big pills, little pills. Pink pills and yellow pills. Pills with a B and pills with a V.

No. I haven’t gone crazy yet, although it feels like it sometimes. Ella made good on her threat, and I could choose to either go on this veritable regimen of pills or have them shoved down my throat. It’s for my own good, she said. It’s still a lot of pills.]

[What's the point? There is  nothing. ]

[You know that feeling when the pill gets stuck in your throat and you try to drown it or cough it up and it leaves that awful taste behind? That's me.]

[I'm not feeling well. No… that's not it. I'm not feeling right. I'm not as angry, I'm not as depressed, I'm not as cynical… To be honest, I'm not really myself. Does anyone see the difference? If I'm me, or this other me? If I was someone else entirely… Would anyone even notice?]

Sherlock cursed Watson's lack of dating his entries, wondering how long this struggle with himself had been going on. He knew first hand how terrible it could get, so he forced himself to read on.

[God, I need to sleep. My eyes are burning. Maybe they'll melt out of their sockets.]

[I can't sleep. I sleep too much. There's a point where it gets difficult to distinguish between what's real and what isn't.]

[They're dead! They're not real. Dead, dead, dead... Go away!]

[What day is it? Does it even matter?]

[I know it works for some, I even advised some patients to seek out similar treatments, but it's not doing it for me. I tried, I really did. I followed Ella's instructions, gobbling one pill after another on the dot. I tried for as long as I could take it, but jeez, my mind… it wasn't even my own for a while there. I was hardly even updating my notebook because I couldn't string two coherent thoughts together, and looking back at the previous entries only comforts me I did the right thing. Bye bye, pills. May you have a safe trip down the sewers of our wonderful city.

I can do better. The world can just keep throwing it's shit at me, I'll go down as Captain John Watson, not as some slob hiding under his blanket.]

Sherlock closed the notebook with a small smile upon reaching the last entry of the last page of the first notebook. He had been afraid for a while there, but John Watson was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: don't be like John Watson. He's a terrible patient. If your doctor prescribed a medical treatment, please follow it.


	3. Book 2, Part 1

[Back to where I started. I guess that’s not as bad as I thought. I haven’t gone forward, but I haven’t gone backwards either. I’m thinking of Harry’s drinking problem, because that could have easily been me. Maybe the pills came at the right moment. Who knows if I wouldn’t have indulged just a little, then a little more and a little more, until I wasn’t myself anymore and couldn’t come back. God knows Harry’s tried and failed. Alcohol is the Watson Kryptonite.]

Sherlock stopped reading and cursed. Turning on Mike’s phone, he googled “Kryptonite” then shut if off again with a roll off his eyes. He could have just said weakness, or talon d’Achille, no need to invoke some imaginary green stone from outer space.

[Ella’s not happy with me, but she agrees the treatment wasn’t doing me any favours. However, now she wants me to try more pills, different pills. Same difference, really. No, I want to go forward, and I’m taking that step by starting a new job at a sandwich shop. It should be...interesting.]

[First day was okay. It’s a bit hard standing all day, but I can take it. But people… Jesus... People are assholes.]

“Glad someone finally agrees,” Sherlock muttered at the dark ink.

“What?” came Mike’s voice from behind him.

Sherlock had quite forgotten where he was. He had just wanted to verify the first entry of the diary he had sorted out as number two corresponded to the last entry of the first, which it did, but then, he had been sucked right in again. It was Watson’s fault for talking to him like they were friends. This complete stranger made him  _ want  _ to listen to him, which never happened, because, as he had pointed out so eloquently, people were assholes, and assholes never had anything worth listening to.

“Just thinking out loud. I'll be in my way. I have a couple of places to check out.”

Mike nodded with gravity, and unplugged his phone to hand it back to him.

“You’ll find him,” he said confidently. “And when you do, tell him not to be a stranger.”

Sherlock wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer that, the show of confidence followed by such an inane message left him wrong footed, so he just flipped his collar up and left.

Pandora’s Box. Ridiculous. Why would you even want to step into such a place to have a good time when it was supposed to contain all the evils of the world. Reverse psychology? For the thrill of it? Out of sheer ignorance? With a sigh, Sherlock banged loudly on the club's heavy door. It was well before party-goers were due to arrive, but he knew some of the staff should already be there to clean and set-up for the night.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for this man,” he said showing Watson’s picture to the bouncer. “He might have worked here. With you, in fact.”

“Security? He doesn’t look like much.”

There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“Mind if I ask your colleagues?”

“You got a warrant thing?

“I can get one.”

The bouncer shrugged and let him in, once more assuming he had some kind of authority to do so. Sherlock hadn’t lied, per say. He could get a warrant if he really wanted to, but he’d rather not bring Lestrade into this. Not yet anyway. After a short examination, the rest of the staff was equally as clueless. Wrong nightclub, but he had been right about the mirror. There was one right near the entrance. Sherlock could easily imagine Watson leaning on his cane as he watched on with a mixture of amusement and disgust at a drunkard make out with himself, the perfect image of narcissism. The mental picture he had of Watson was so vivid now, Sherlock had to blink the illusion away.

The next nightclub, the Crystal Bar, proved more difficult to investigate. That was more like it. They had something to hide. It might not be related to Watson’s disappearance, and it might not be important, but it gave him leverage. The bouncer wouldn’t let him in without a warrant, and he even looked suspiciously at Lestrade’s badge. A minor setback. Sherlock walked around to the back where he picked the locks, then went straight to the office to look through the employee files, and lo and behold: John Watson, employed for a mere week. The information there was scarce and useless, a mere confirmation of what he already knew. Sherlock needed the employer’s testimony, but if Watson was right and the man had really been spooked, then he was going to have to wrestle the truth out of him. So Sherlock did what any good detective would do and dug around for the owner's dirty little secrets until he finally showed up.

“What the hell are you doing here? I’m calling the cops!”

“You sure you want to do that? I mean, if _ I _ was taking my share of the dealers’ sales in my establishment and selling “special services” for your important patrons, _ I  _ certainly wouldn’t want a law enforcement official to come snooping around.”

The man wasn’t as scared by his veiled threat as he had expected, but he was on the brink, he just need one more little push.

“I wouldn’t want my wife to be tipped off about my many affairs either.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in challenge. He didn’t want to mention the man's children, but he would if he had to. The owner still looked mulish as he weighed his options.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know about one of your former employees.”

He nodded, seeming to relax.

“One John Watson.”

The man clammed up, fear pouring out of every pore of his greasy skin. What the devil was it about John Watson?

“Out! Get out! Or I will call the police. I’d rather go to jail.”

Sherlock huffed, but knew when he was beaten. The man was scared for his very life. Sherlock was a mean bastard himself, he knew that, and used it shamelessly, but he wasn’t going to kill the poor excuse of a human being just to get some nugget of information out of him. It was only a small piece of the puzzle. Besides, he had gotten enough: confirmation that someone very scary and very powerful was pulling the strings above the unlucky doctor. He was sure of it now. The real question was: who? Which criminal in London had enough clout to pull off such an elaborate scheme? And for what purpose other than to make Watson miserable?

Sherlock left for Baker Street since he had no more leads to investigate for now, but he knew his missing client would provide new clues sooner or later in the inked pages of his diary.

[I can take the lack of politeness, hell, that's pretty much standard for Londoners. Same for the utter lack of smiles, the standard bad moods, and the screen junkies who never look up once, not even to take their order or pay. I'm actually impressed by that level of multitasking where a phone is concerned. But there's a whole other level of rudeness that seems to ooze out of people when they're both hungry and in a hurry. And who should they take it out on but the poor sods who are preparing their food. So they're assholes, and not even very smart ones, because I know for a fact that Stevo (and yes, that is his real name and not a nickname, I checked) has done unholy things to some of the food he's served.]

Sherlock made a mental note to be extra polite to places he ordered take out from. Most times, he only ate from those restaurants that owed him a favour and were consequently safe, but it did happen now and then that he would have to eat from a strange place, and people usually considered him an insufferable prick when he was just being himself. The math was not in his favour.

[Third day in and I learned two things about myself today. One: I make a mean sandwich if I have the right ingredients. Two: I have no patience for idiots. I thought I did, once upon a time, but obviously, I was wrong. I don’t know what was up with our customers today, but they must have been dosed along the way with a large helping of cretinism, a dash of bigotry and a pinch of pig-headedness. As a newly-minted sandwich-chef, I can tell you those ingredients do not mix well. I let it slip at first, but they just kept piling on, one after another. Even Sherry said it wasn’t so bad usually, and she had to go out to smoke a cigarette to calm down. I  _ envied _ her smoking.  _ Me _ . A  _ doctor _ . I know exactly what it does to the human lungs, teeth, skin... and yet, I would have gladly taken a cigarette break to escape the rude bastards. It's unfair. Non-smokers don't get a fresh-air break in its stead. It might have helped me deal a bit better with Mr that's-not-what-I-ordered-you-old-faggot. I think my response was pretty subdued considering what a total dick he was being. First of all, that was exactly what he ordered: I have a good memory and I'm used to taking orders, no puns intended. I don't make mistakes. Second, why be so rude about it? I swear he was trying to make me lose my shit. Well, I hope he's happy, because he got a free sandwich shoved down his throat and he's damn lucky I didn't shove it up an alternate orifice.]

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could just picture mild-mannered Watson suddenly flipping a switch and turning into this terrifying vengeful angel wielding a foot long sandwich to stuff it down Anderson's throat. Except… he had no idea how Anderson had entered his mind palace. Watson had said “moron”, so naturally Sherlock had pictured the epitome of idiocy… So, another blow for Watson. Another suspicious set-up. He wondered when the poor doctor would realize he was being deliberately targeted. What would he do then? What was he going to do now? A frisson of excitement ran down his spine as he turned the page. John Watson, why must you be so very interesting?

[Embracing my new philosophy not to let anything bring me down, I left the sandwich joint to go drink a pint. On my own. Yeah, I know. Bit sad and pathetic, but I needed something to drink and clear my head before I did something stupid. Unfortunately, once there, I was confronted by another reality: I was surrounded by people, but I was alone. Truly alone. I could have disappeared right on the spot, popping like a soap bubble as I sat in the middle of that crowd, and no one would have noticed. No one cares. 

Which makes me think: why do  _ I _ care so much? Why have I always lived and worked to help others? Putting their well-being before my own?

I'm a soldier and a doctor, both of which entail putting others first. 

Why can't I be a selfish bastard like so many others? They look so happy and carefree. Like that idiot in the next booth who is simultaneously groping his girlfriend and staring unabashedly at the waitress’s ass. He doesn't give a shit, he's just enjoying himself, doing whatever the hell he wants. Or that guy the other day who stole my cab as happy as you please. Walked right passed me without a care, and he was off. No apology, not even a bad excuse. He wanted it, so he took it.

Everything around me… I spent the rest of the day searching, but I saw nothing I could connect to. It's like I'm a different species. Humankind evolved into this selfish, uncaring, loud mass while I stagnated, clinging to my stupid ideals.

I care too much. I realize that. I can't be like them. But I  _ want _ to. I want that freedom. It would make life so much easier. Why should I care about them when they don't care about me? Fuck them all.]

Sherlock could have predicted his next step and that it wouldn't work, but some people needed a hands on approach to realize the obvious.

[Isolation doesn't work for me either. I need… something. Someone. I don't know. A way to belong. Like the army.

Dating isn't working, but even a friend would be nice. Just someone to talk to who actually cares. Unfortunately, I've sort of mucked that up by leaving for the other side of the planet for the past decade. The friends I left behind have forgotten me, or know a version of me that doesn't exist anymore; and those who have come back from Afghanistan, like Loud Phil and Tiny Tom, are in as bad a shape as me, so we would only bring each other down.

But how do you make new friends at my age? Who would want  _ me _ as a friend? No, I think that's another dead end.

There really is nothing left for me. What am I supposed to do?]

“It's a good thing I have you,” Sherlock told his skull. “Maybe I should lend you to Watson when I find him. Unless it's too late. Then maybe I can recover his skull and you can share the mantel. You'll like him, he has a good sense of humour.”

[So… I don't have anyone, I don't have a job, I don't have a future… On the flip side, I have no one to disappoint either. The way I see it, I have nothing to lose. I'm fed up with being no one and barely surviving. I'm calling the man with no name.]

Sherlock rose from his slouched position on the sofa. His nose almost touching the page, watching as the man's life unfurled with every loop of ink. This was a turning point. He'd known it ever since he had mentioned the man trying to recruit him while remaining purposefully vague, not even giving his own name. Only a card. A card he wished he had in his possession, because he could have already solved the case if he had.

_ And miss seeing life through the eyes of Watson? Not a chance. _

[The man with no name sounded pleased I called. A bit too much, and like he'd been expecting it when we only met once several weeks ago. I should probably feel more worried than I am, but honestly, I'm just happy I have something to look forward to. No, scratch that: I'm just happy I have something to do.]

[Mr No Name now has a name. I can call him Colonel. It was difficult not to laugh in his face. He might be twice my size and look like he eats rocks for breakfast, but honestly, who introduces themselves as Colonel. Just that. No name. It's like he craves respect and power so much, he looked for an appropriate title in the dictionary and stumbled on Colonel. 

You have to earn such a title. I'm not going to call him anything, I think it'll save me a whole lot of trouble along the way if he doesn't see me laughing at him.

Other than that, he was good company. He lavished me with good food and wine in a cosy restaurant, talked my ear off until I relaxed, seemed to care about my situation and sympathised with the difficulties I and all veterans go through.

I thought he might be laying it on a bit thick, but he actually knew what he was talking about. I could see the anger in his eyes, the bite in his words, at the way we're cut lose to fend for ourselves when we're no longer useful to the army. Like we're waste. He understands.

He was still quite vague about what this job entails though. For now, he says he just wants to test me. I guess I'll learn more about it on our next meeting.]

John Watson was no fool. He saw the manipulation. The problem was that he  _ wanted _ to believe. It was so much easier being a high-functioning sociopath. None of this needing to belong and to meet expectations rubbish.

[If I needed more proof that the Colonel is really an ex-army man, then his tests surely spelled it out loud and clear.

He put me through the paces, ignoring the fact I have injuries. Not that he doesn't care, but he says he wants to push my limits, that my enemies won't care for my injuries and will use them against me, that if he has to do with the handicap, he's going to see how far I can be pushed. The guy is like a drill sergeant's drill sergeant. It's a nightmare, but I loved every minute of it. Not that I'm a masochist, I thought I was going to faint on the spot for a while there, but the guy pushed me to be more, to be better.

I'm ashamed to say that after a while, I forgot about my limp. It sort of vanished without my noticing, as if it had never been there. I was free. I don't know how the Colonel knew that it was psychosomatic, but he somehow healed it anyway. He's bloody brilliant.

That was basic training for today. Looks like I passed his evaluation since he told me to come back tomorrow.]

“I could have done that too,” Sherlock muttered. Watson would have called  _ him _ bloody brilliant too. He was smarter than anyone else, even this so called Colonel. He would bet his violin that man had only gotten rid of John's limp out of luck. 

[The Colonel greeted me with a smile that would have put a wolf to shame when he told me we'd be sparring today. I looked around just in case, but no, it's just the two of us again. He has a clear physical advantage over me, even without my limp, but then again, most people do, so it's nothing new to me.

I'm faster than him and I have more than a few tricks up my sleeve, but he's just so godamned huge. It's like trying to wrestle a mountain.]

Sherlock paused, beginning to amass details about this Colonel - who likely was, or had been, a Colonel in the past, despite Watson’s first impression. He hoped to gather enough data to find out the man's identity, because he was either responsible for Watson's disappearance or he knew what had happened to him.

[As a doctor, I know the weaknesses of the human body, and have a good eye for spotting old injuries, but I'd swear the Colonel has none, or he's really good at ignoring pain. Two can play that game however, and by the time he called it quits, he was just as bruised as I was. I got him on his back once too, so I'll call that a victory, even if I landed in a heap myself more times than I can count.

Again, he must have been satisfied of our session, because he told me to come the next day.]

[Everything hurts, in a good way. I finally feel alive again.]

“You're such a strange man, John Watson,” he said to no one in particular, although his skull grinned in agreement, his sunken eye sockets darkening with the setting sun. Sherlock flipped on the lightswitch of the lamp next to him so he could continue reading.

[The Colonel took me to a private range today. This is how I know someone blabbed about the more covert operations I participated in. He shouldn't know I can hit a target so far with a simple handgun, but he had brought me all the way out here to test my skills as a sharpshooter. Despite the rumours he had heard, he had obviously underestimated me given how easy the first target was. He changed the parameters after each success to make it a real challenge, until even I couldn’t hit it. It seemed impossible, to tell the truth, and I told him as much. So, of course, he proved me wrong. It was amazing, and he made it look so easy too. Alright, I'll admit it: maybe the bloke does deserve to be called Colonel without me snickering about it.

I’m to return tomorrow. I wonder what’s next…]

Sherlock knew, but he had to admit this Colonel was good at reeling in his catch. He must have done this many times before. The recruiter, but not the leader of this little group. Charismatic enough to charm Watson though.

[Day 4 and I still have no idea what this “job” entails. I was introduced to a few guys, none of whom I'd ever met before, because I half expected to see Loud Phil amongst them. He's the one who brought the Colonel along to the pub night after all, and he is one of the few people who knows about my special skills. He's obviously the one who sold me out, and I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, even if I am glad he did in the end.

I like the Colonel. He's a bit… odd, at times. I can't quite put my finger on it, but one minute he'll be the funniest guy you've ever met and the next, he'll become quiet and have this look in his eyes, like he's going to turn on you and rip your throat out with his bare teeth. It might just be my imagination… Ella did say multiple times that I have trust issues. 

The fact that they’re all being secretive is not helping matters though. The guys hinted that it’s mostly security related but that could mean a whole lot of things. I suppose it all boils down to  who I’m really working for, because it’s not the Colonel. Any idiot can see he’s taking his own orders from someone else. But it does make me wonder who such a formidable force of nature as him would bow down to. Is it someone famous? Someone powerful? Is he just doing it for the money?]

“Very good, John. See?" he told his skull. "He’s not a complete idiot.”

The skull didn’t answer.

“Oh, don't be jealous. I wasn't serious about sharing your chimney space.”

There was plenty of space on the coffee table after all.

[Doubts apart, it was good to belong again. We're all ex-military, it was like being back there again, with a band of brothers who always have each other’s backs. It's all I ever wanted.]

[Before I could return the next day, I was kidnapped during the night. Or that's what it felt like at first. One of the guys I met yesterday, Ed if I remember correctly, was shaking me awake and pulling me out of my bed. He told me I was needed. I thought it was just another test, but everyone looked on edge and there was a sense of urgency around them I've only ever felt in Afghanistan. We scrambled into a van and I don't know who was at the wheel, but that was some fine driving. I didn't know it was possible to drive through London so fast.

They took me to the usual place, but I was greeted at the entrance by a puddle of blood. We followed the bloody trail to an honest to god real operating room with a guy bleeding out from a bullet he'd taken in the thigh. My kidnapping became pretty self-explanatory at that point, so I got to work, keeping Ed with me as a nurse.

If it had been a test, they were taking things a bit too far. Since it was not, why didn't they go to a real hospital? Where the poor sod wouldn't have had to bleed out waiting for me to arrive? Well, that's pretty self explanatory too, isn't it? 

I didn't think about it too much until I had finished patching up my patient. He'll pull through. He was lucky.

And my hands didn't shake. Not once. Just for that, it was worth it. I was a surgeon again.]

So even his tremor was not directly linked to his injury? Not one, but two distinct psychosomatic symptoms... Interesting. Especially when taking into account Watson could have returned to his beloved army if not for that, so what really caused them? What had happened to him when he got shot in Afghanistan? Because that wound was real, and made his psyche create enough hurdles that he wouldn't be allowed back to what he loved. It wasn’t logical. Could it be a primal instinct of survival that had kicked in? Going against his own will and desires? Did he even know himself? It didn’t sound like it, but maybe it was still buried somewhere deep down in his mind.

[One thing to be said is that it pays well. I don’t know how they got hold of my bank account number after last night, but I think at this point, the less questions asked the better. I guess that means I’m hired, as a doctor at least.]

So, an illegal organisation… a gang? A criminal ring, but which dealt in what kind of activity? Drugs? Prostitution? Robbery? Sherlock couldn't imagine Watson tolerating any of those... Or it could still be a militia group, those usually hovered around the fine line of legality, so it might account for the secrecy. Some of those groups functioned almost like a sect. Again, it was difficult to imagine Watson going along given his principles, but he was in a bad headspace at that moment, so it wasn't out of the question either.

The question was still  _ who _ ? Who was at the top of this organisation?

  
  



	4. Book 2, Part 2

[The Colonel thanked me this morning when I arrived. He's very… touchy-feely when he's grateful. Who would've guessed? Anyway, it looks like he wants to take me on a mission tomorrow to replace the guy who got shot. Not reassuring in the least, and yet, I can't wait for something to do that'll make my blood boil like it used to. So it's just practice for today, mixing in with the rest of the team, which is fine by me, because the Colonel's personal attention was getting a bit much. It's like having a hungry tiger breathing down my back all the time, but in his defense, he seems to be like that with everyone else too. He's just a very intense guy, I guess.]

Sherlock let the notebook flop down on his chest like a dead pigeon with its wings spread wide. He was not so sure about John's assessment of the Colonel. He imagined his attitude had more to do with the people he had personally hand-picked and groomed, like his other man who got shot since he seemed so grateful the doctor had saved him. Sherlock doubted the Colonel would be so open with a random minion he had not chosen himself. Whether John realized it or not, the Colonel had personally selected him, made sure he was his only option for work and companionship, then evaluated him himself, putting himself in a position of authority over him in one fell swoop. He even schooled him in some aspects, enforcing that dynamic. The Colonel probably considered Watson now belonged to him.

[The job… well, it wasn't unexpected. I'm not blind, or stupid. We met up at the usual place then the same guy who drove me across London like a maniac to save his friend dropped us off on the docks. So yeah, the docks, in the dead of night, dressed in black fatigues… very cliché, right? But it gets worse. We were basically security for the scruffy looking asian guys unloading a couple of crates into several vans. I have no idea what were in the boxes, where they came from, or where they were headed. I don't want to know, to be honest. In any case, everything went down without a hitch and we returned to base. Easy peasy.

Right.

It's what I wanted, a job, money, so why do I feel all queasy about it? I don't  _ want _ to care. Caring never brought me anything good. Caring is not an advantage in this world.]

John was only trying to convince himself. He could repeat it to himself over and over again, it was never going to work. If his Colonel ever tried to make him do something that went beyond his moral compass, he was going to snap like a rubber band. Which might be exactly what happened to him… the reason he disappeared. Could be another job on the docks, except a crate spilled over this time, and Watson saw drugs… the good doctor would not be tolerating any of that.

Sherlock debated for a moment between going to investigate the docks, trying to locate this base of operations from the few clues he'd gleaned in between the lines, or just keep on reading. Given it was the dead of night and he was learning more from the notebooks than any legwork he'd done so far, he decided to stay put.

[Today was security detail of another sort. I think maybe I'm just working for some underground security agency. All I had to do was guard a door to a building while business of some sort or other was being done inside. Honestly… kind of boring. I was almost hoping for something to go wrong, which says a lot about me.]

“Adrenaline junkie,” Sherlock snorted. “To each his substance of choice.”

And who was he to criticize? His own unfortunate dabbling in heroin excluded, he still needed his daily dose of mystery and puzzled to solve, or boredom would drive him to insanity.

[New day, new job. Teaming up with the Colonel this time. Tailing this guy, which is fine. He didn’t seem particularly dangerous or interesting in any way however. To be honest, I was more unnerved by the glances the Colonel kept shooting my way, but I'm good at ignoring little quirks like that by now. I'm good at ignoring a lot of stuff when I put my mind to it.

“You don't ask a lot of questions,” the Colonel said, so maybe that's what this so-called mission was really about.

It was just the two of us again, so he was expecting me to open up? Could be a trap... I always feel like I'm being put to the test by this man. I have been keeping on my toes around him. So I told him it was a habit from the army, as he well knew. Soldiers take orders, they don't ask questions. Not if you didn't want to clean the latrines with a toothbrush all night. The Colonel laughed and patted me on the back, which felt like being swiped by a gigantic bear paw and made me stumble into the woman walking in front of us. My clumsiness only made him laugh harder, thank God, but we made enough of a commotion that it got our target’s attention. We had to duck behind an ancient phone booth, a tourist attraction nowadays. We held our breath, trying not to laugh at our predicament. 

Of course, the excuse I gave the Colonel for my discretion is not the entire truth. I simply don't  _ want _ to know. If I do, I might not like what I got myself into and leave, but I don't want to lose this, so I don't ask. I'm sure the Colonel won't like that answer though. He doesn't like cowards.]

Sherlock turned the page, eyebrows raised at the angle the handwriting was slanted. Writing fast, not on a table… his knees maybe? Strange.

[I thought the Colonel was intense, but that's nothing compared to the man I met today. I think he's the real boss the way the Colonel deferred to him. And the poor sod might just be in love with the bloke the way he drinks in his every word and stares at him like he's God or something. I can sort of understand that. The boss is like fire: dangerous, ever-changing, and all consuming.

Before we went to meet up with him, the Colonel warned me to shut up around him, keep out of his way, and obey to the letter anything he asked.  _ Anything.  _ I looked at the two others guys accompanying us and they nodded back. Dead serious. They looked scared themselves, to be honest.

It made my blood boil. Danger always does, and this man is danger personified.

I admit I was disappointed when I first saw him: small, skinny, not as remarkable as I expected, but then he glanced at me when I walked in behind the Colonel and it was like he had ripped my soul out of my body, read it like a shopping list, then tossed it back in. Those eyes… dammit, I think I stopped breathing for a moment there.]

“Waxing poetic much,” Sherlock muttered.

John Watson was much too impressionable… although, he usually wasn't. Apart from the Colonel, no one ever made an impression on him, and even that had been justified by a massive physique. This boss of his had to exude something extraordinary to elicit such a primal reaction from the otherwise stoic ex-army doctor. This criminal was also a man who had terrorised the club owner so much he chose divorce and prison over giving any information even remotely related to him. A very powerful crime leader with such a bad reputation he scared the rest of the underworld... Sherlock targued himself with knowing most of London’s career criminals, yet he couldn't link Watson's inadequate description of this mysterious boss to any of them. A new player? No, he couldn't be if he already had that much clout and influence. Someone who had managed to stay in the shadows until Watson shone a light on him through his diary? Yes… that was a possibility, if he was as exceptional as described. Something to look forward to.

Something  _ else _ to look forward to.

[The job was pretty tame in the end, despite that heart-stopping moment of meeting my boss. Pretty basic too: protect him with my life while he gallivants around shady places all over London, scaring what I have to assume were petty - and less petty - criminals. 

And the way he did it… Damn, it was magnificent, but I think I'll have nightmares for days to come too. The guy is a bloody lunatic, but brilliant. He terrifies people just by talking to them, and sometimes not even that. A mere glance can make some cry like overgrown toddlers. So we minions are just there for show with our big guns and muscles.

I feel like a sheep that somehow got under the big bad wolf's employ. It's both what I need and a worse case scenario. I don't mind shooting criminals, if I have to. I'm a doctor, I know where to shoot so it's not lethal, but I won't hurt innocents.

I won't, yet I know what it will cost me to go against the big bad wolf…]

The rest of the page was filled with scribbles and unfinished sketches of a face that focused almost entirely on a pair of dark eyes. Seems the Colonel was not the only one with a crush on his boss. A realization that unsettled Sherlock for some unfathomable reason. He pushed back the phantom feeling and read on, waiting for the trainwreck that was Watson's life to go off the rails again.

[I'm too far in to get out now. Not too far gone that I will go against my principles. The Colonel suspects, I think. He still sends me on various jobs, with or without him or the guys, but I can feel they're gradually becoming more and more reprehensible. Illegal, sure, but I already had an illegal firearm before getting mixed up with this lot. Illegality never stopped me before. Laws are more of a general guideline, really. If I break the law for good reasons, I won't lose sleep over it. It doesn't make me a bad guy, I think. Just like there are some people out there who never stepped a toe outside the law, not personally anyway, but who are some of the worst scumbags humanity has to offer. The world isn't black and white.

So my grey ass is being tested still, I'm sure. They want to know how far I can be pushed, how dark I can become, just like on that first day. I know because the Colonel still wants me to report after each mission. To him, personally. I know the other guys here don't do that.]

Sherlock jumped to the next paragraph and instantly knew something momentous had happened from Watson's handwriting. It was shaky, like the times he had been heavily medicated, but unlike the weak hold he'd had on his fountain pen back then, he was now practically crushing the nib of his pen into the pages, leaving ink stains throughout. Sherlock took a deep breath and eagerly drank in his words.

[They know how to use me. They sent me on a punitive expedition with the Colonel for someone who was reneging on a deal. I was all set to find the first excuse I could to get out of it. Even make a run for it if necessary. I couldn't do this, beat up some guy to make him cough up the dough he owed, not even a criminal… It's one thing being there for protection, or retaliating after being attacked, it's quite another to go ambush someone to cause pain for such a petty reason as money. 

Or so I thought, until I saw what “goods” he was selling. 

They weren't in good shape. Jesus, those poor people… I just lost it. My fists hurt, but at least the guy is in as bad a shape as his merchandise now. The Colonel stopped me, had to pull me off the bastard and hold me back, told me I did a good job and dropped me off just now. I washed my hands several times, but they still feel sticky with blood. Never thought before that phantom blood was a thing, and I've had my hands gut deep in human bodies enough times before. Of course, it's not the same when you're doing it to heal. I know, I know...

And yet… I almost beat the guy to death and I'm not even ashamed of it. I'd do it again. Some people  _ deserve _ to die.]

Well, this was worrying. Not that Watson had almost beaten the life out of some pathetic excuse for a human being, but that he was writing it down in a… journal (not a diary). In the beginning, he had been too shy or reluctant to be completely honest, to the point he had even blotted out details. This, right here, was a dangerous confession. In other words, Watson thought he had nothing to lose and wanted his acts recorded for posterity.

For his sister? Doubtful.

Sherlock didn’t usually need to get in the victim’s headspace. Physical clues, so obvious and numerous, just pointed him in the right direction. Helping Scotland Yard was like leading blind children around. In the most challenging cases, he might have to insinuate himself into the criminal’s thought process, but never the victim’s. Victims were boring, and dead, most of the time.

In sum, John Watson had sent these incriminating notebooks to his sister just before he disappeared. The doctor himself must have known something was about to happen to him, that he was on the edge of a precipice, but he didn’t, so far, include specific names or places so he could be found. 

However, he must have known chances were high his sister would simply hand the notebooks over to the police, despite their content, knowing she would not read through them herself so… wait a moment… had the idiotic man simply wanted the truth to be known about him? Why? To save his reputation? What use was it to him if he was dead? Somehow, it was such a John Watson thing to do that he should have seen it coming sooner.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

But Sherlock would find him, despite it all. He always solved his cases.

[They're mellowing me. Desensitizing me. Not to violence, because I've witnessed my fair share of that already, war and all, but getting me used to be the one causing it. Personally. Normalizing violence, even here in jolly old England. Loosening my morals.

I can't find a way out, and my first victim opened up the floodgates of righteous anger, of justified punishment, of deserved pain. I realize it's only an excuse for what I did. We have a judicial system for a reason, however much flawed it is. So I know using it as a reason to cause pain is cowardly, but what other option do I have?

You don't say no to these people.

You don't quit working for them.

I spill other people's blood to save my own. 

What have I become?]

There were several light scratches on the next line, as if Watson had begun a new entry several times before changing his mind. Sherlock could only hazard a guess at the time gap before the next entry, and about what might have happened to him that he hadn’t wanted to put down on paper despite admitting to nearly killing someone with his bare fists just before. Something worse? Or more personal? Or maybe he simply hadn’t had time to write down his thoughts, had been pulled away from his writing by the Colonel… He might ask Watson when he found him, if he was still alive.

[Thankfully, sometimes I just get to be a doctor. It makes me feel like I can still do some good, like I'm tipping the scales back to some semblance of equilibrium.]

[Reading back on my earlier entries, I wonder if I'm better off now than I was before. I would be, without a doubt, if I didn't have a conscience. I try not to care, I don't want to, but I guess I'm just not wired that way.

So I have everything I wanted now. I can live in London. I have money, a job, colleagues, some of which have becomes friends, but at what price? Freedom and a clean conscience? Bit steep if you ask me. No refunds either. Talk about getting screwed over.]

[You know you’ve gone too far when you can’t look yourself in the mirror any more. But I guess I'm not suicidal anymore, so there's that… I  _ want  _ to live now. But not like this.]

_ So what did you do, John?  _ Sherlock asked himself while mapping out all the different possibilities and outcomes. Unfortunately, none of them ended well.

[Training at the range today. It’s a nice change of pace. All the guys were there too, so we made a competition out of it. Losers have to buy the rest a pint tonight, which is fine by me because I’m by far their best shot. Or I was until the Colonel joined us and took his turn. I still beat him with a handgun, but that man does things with a rifle that defy the laws of physics. We had a good laugh about it as we drank our hard earned beers at the pub nearby. I was surprised when the others started ribbing the Colonel about his skills, but he took it in stride and gave as good as he got. It was fun seeing this other side to him. He might give us orders and run us into the ground during training, but he's one of us.]

That dratted need to belong was going to put the good doctor into quite the conundrum soon if he considered them friends, yet didn't want to go along with their schemes. You can't butter both sides of your bread. At one point, John was going to have to choose.

[I'm having serious doubts about the next job. They're not calling it as it is, but from my perspective, it's a straight up assassination. I mean… it wouldn't be my first "removal of target", but there's usually a good reason behind it. One that is surely missing in this case.

I may be a bad judge of character in general, which is sort of how I ended up stuck in this mess in the first place, but they want me to shoot this bloke who looks like a stuck up accountant, albeit a well protected one. 

If they had the sort of dirt on him that makes me angry enough to get me bloodthirsty, they would have started with that. The very fact they haven't makes me think they don't have it, which means there probably isn’t any... 

I'm not killing an innocent. 

And I'm not an idiot. I can see they're setting me up to be the second shooter, the one who gets caught if things go south. Or shot, Lee Harvey Oswald style, so I can't spill the beans about our little group, or so they don't look further than a disgruntled army vet. I’m the perfect decoy.

Because come on, what I can shoot, the Colonel can shoot better. 

But now it all makes sense, why they came after me. They heard rumours about my unusual marksmanship and have been moving me like a silly little pawn all across the checkerboard. And now I'm facing the white king, but they can't make me take him.

Worse is that they know what sets me off. Just show me how much of a bastard he is, and I'll take him out with my bare hands if that's what they want. Since they're not, I can only assume the poor sod really is just an accountant. For the wealthy, or rivals. I don't know. I don't care. I am  _ not _ killing an innocent.]

How much was this act of rebellion going to cost him? Not much at this point if he was still writing in his diary. But Sherlock disagreed on his assessment on the situation. The Colonel had gone through too much trouble, spent too much time acquiring John to dispose of him so carelessly. In fact, he would bet there was a third and even fourth shooter set up with their sights on the target. John was the insurance, rather than the decoy.

Sherlock turned the page, half expecting to find it blank, but he froze at the sight of more sketches, like the ones he had done of his boss's eyes, except these were more detailed and complete.

It was those details, so familiar, that put Sherlock off kilter. That nose, the receding hairline, the suit, the umbrella… It couldn't be a coincidence. Even without a name, Sherlock knew this was his brother. Someone, and a very smart someone, whom he hadn't yet identified to boot, was planning to murder his brother. They might not get along, but he wasn't allowing that to happen to the annoying git. John must have thrown a wrench in the plan already by refusing his orders, thus delaying the plan, but it could happen any second now.

Phone in hand, Sherlock tapped on Mycroft's contact, but paused to find the right words. He didn't want to sound like he was worried, that he  _ cared… _ He wouldn't be able to live it down, especially since Mycroft would fling it back in his face every chance he got. But he didn’t want his warning to be dismissed either. Humming in thought for a few seconds, Sherlock decided to be bluntly honest with just a touch of sarcasm to goad him on. He wouldn’t say he could play Mycroft like a fiddle, but he knew a few buttons to push to get him moving.

**You do realize a group of ex-military has been planning your assassination for several weeks now, of course? London-based. Multiple shooters. You might want to stuff your large nose into that little problem before they blow up your head. You know how hard it is to get blood out of tweed. -SH**

There. Just enough derision whilst getting his point across. He had done his brotherly duty, now he could start investigating the final diary to find John Watson.


	5. Book 3

[There's no good way to tell your commanding officer to shove his mission orders where the sun don't shine. Same goes with a mob boss, criminal kingpin, the devil hulself, or whatever else he might be.

I have to find a way to get out.

I have to find a way to warn the target of the danger he's in.

They must not suspect me until I've achieved those two objectives, so I'll just play along for now and hope for the best. If I get caught… Well, I guess no one will ever know what happened to me. I'll just be… gone.]

In his experience, bodies had a knack of showing up sooner or later, but he had to agree with John's assessment in this particular case because this criminal organization's very purpose was to dispose of inconvenient people without getting caught. Luckily for John, the best and only consulting detective in the country, even the world, was looking for him so he would be found, dead or alive, sooner rather than later.

[I'll prepare a letter... Better yet, I'll send my notebooks to Harry. She's the only one who might actually care enough to either read them-]

_ Wrong _ , Sherlock snorted.

[-or at least realize something's wrong and pass them on to the police.]

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed, smiling to himself. "Not a bad deduction at all."

John Watson would make a good assistant. Sherlock could use an assistant. The doctor had already proved himself smarter and more entertaining that his skull after all. When Sherlock found him… soon, he hoped, and alive... he wondered if he could keep him.

[I’m not sure if the police would actually use them, or if they are all that useful to be honest. I know I’m rambling most of the time, and I’m too much of a coward to be completely honest. It’s not easy, laying my soul down on the paper. More so because the ink reveals it to be as dark as I fear.]

[I have to accept my fate… It will probably be too late for me, and too naive to hope for any kind of rescue, but part of me will escape through these words so my fate won't end in the deafening silence of indifference.

It's a terrifying thought, disappearing as if I never existed, never mattered, never made a difference…]

Sherlock tutted at the page, because John  _ did _ matter to him, as loathe as he was to admit it. He  _ had  _ made a difference, at least in Sherlock's life and he hadn't even met the man. He knew it was a foolish thought. Caring was not an advantage, and Mycroft would mock him mercilessly if he ever learned Sherlock cared for a man he knew only through the words he put to paper. He would scorn him for being a child, for having  _ emotions. _ It’s not like Sherlock wanted them, they had just happened somewhere around the second notebook, although he was fully expecting the bothersome feelings to wear off upon meeting the man himself. People usually had that sort of effect on him.

His phone alerted him to an incoming message and Sherlock reluctantly switched it on, not surprised to see his brother’s answer.

**I am always the target of some assassination plot or other, brother dear. This one, however, has escaped my notice. Any more details you can spare? -MH**

Sherlock smirked. Having the upper hand on his brother was rare enough that he debated on delaying his reply to savour the moment. Reality beckoned however, and he would not have his death on his conscious.

**I’m working on it. You’d better haul up in one of your bunkers in the meantime. -SH**

**You’re taking on a team of ex-military assassins on your own? A bit presumptuous even for you. I’ll have a team at your disposal when you need them. -MH**

**Busybody. -SH**

**Is that a no? -MH**

**Fine. Just so long as they take orders this time. -SH**

**“Stuff it” is not an unreasonable order to ignore. -MH**

**Depends how moronic they’re being. -SH**

With a huff of annoyance at Mycroft’s meddling, Sherlock stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t admit it to his brother, but it was a relief having some backup on this case. He had thought of calling on the Yard, but John Watson would have been difficult to explain away, and even more so to smuggle out right under their noses. Lestrade wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he wasn’t blind either. Mycroft’s men, on the other hand, would not take his prize away from him if Sherlock told them not too. It was perfect, actually. 

He jumped up from the sofa and rummaged around his desk for a spare map of London. He could use his mind palace, but a good old red marker on a paper map would be quicker in this case. John had given him several clues and Sherlock could feel he was getting very near to his location. A few pins insured the map would stay up on the wall and Sherlock began slashing away at it with the marker.

exit the zones which were too far away to be reached from his old bedsit in the record time he had been kidnapped that one time to operate on one of the men. It eliminated more of the map than he had imagined actually, once you counted one way streets and those under construction at the time. Then, accounting for the size of the building according to how many it housed, but also an operation room, a gym and a shooting range… a good many old neighbourhoods fell under his red pen. However, John’s utter lack of comments about their base hinted that it had to be extraordinarily ordinary. What better way to fly under the radar? New buildings that large were rare enough and under the government's scrutiny, which the mastermind behind this organisation would have wanted to avoid at all cost. So an old structure, but large. Repurposed? Sherlock scanned the portions free of red ink. There were still a dozen possibilities jumping out at him, so he went through his mind palace, searching for more details, or lack thereof.

“Gotcha!” Sherlock exclaimed, toppling over a pile of books as he scribbled off a few more streets.

John had gone to that place three times on his own before being kidnapped and officially, forcibly, relocated there, yet, he had never mentioned having to walk there or more likely having to pay a cab fare on his meagre savings, which meant there was easy access to the place using public transportation from his bedsit, to… Sherlock followed the easiest route and poked a larger rectangle.

“Here,” he murmured, caressing the word. 

It was the most likely location, but Sherlock wasn’t fool enough not to take note of alternative possibilities. There were only a few lines left in the notebook and Sherlock had a mental argument with himself whether he should read them now or later. Time being of the essence for both John and Mycroft, he left, but took the notebooks with him, on the off chance he had been wrong.

A cab happened to drive by and Sherlock hailed it. Suspicious timing, but he was not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth and after giving the cabbie the address of the abandoned shop, Sherlock eagerly opened the notebook where he had left off.

[Another mission came up which took off a bit of steam for a couple of days, but the Colonel is getting impatient, because their boss is getting impatient. We all know I don’t actually have a choice in this, so it’s gonna come as a mighty shock to them when I’ll tell them no. And I know me, I’m stubborn. Whatever happens next, I think this is the end of the line for me. I barely have enough freedom of movement that I might be able to send these to Harry.

This is it. This is goodbye.]

“You alright back there, mate?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the last sentence to glare at the idiot who dared interrupt the moment.

“Only, we’ve arrived,” the cabbie insisted, needlessly pointing at the dark building.

“Yes, I can see,” Sherlock said flatly, putting the notebook away. “Drop me off at the next corner.”

The cabbie sighed but did as he was told. He would not be getting a tip. Chatty cabbies were the worst.

The location was just as Sherlock expected from the outside and he vibrated with curiosity at seeing the inside, to know if he was right, to find and save John. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise? But first things first, Sherlock melted in the shadows of an alleyway and waited.

Several hours of observation later, Sherlock knew he had the right place, but also that John Watson was no longer with his cohorts. No where could he spot the blond man coming in or out of their nifty hidey hole. Sherlock might have left it at that, assumed him dead, but he had made it this far and would either find the man or avenge him. Besides, he had a good vantage point and Watson's diaries to pass the time. Admittedly, the words were already sprawled in indelible ink across the walls of his mind palace, but seeing the original loops and lines on the soft, cream pages gave him the false impression he had a more direct link to Watson.

To think he might be close, might need his help... Maybe he should just sneak in. It wouldn't be difficult, but he hated going in blind. More so because that usually ended up with him in hospital, Lestrade growling laws at him, and his brother's mere presence at his bedside for days on end, scowling disapprovingly… Nothing was worth such torment. Not even John Watson.

A little more observation and he had a glimpse of a man of impressive physique who could only be the infamous Colonel. John's sketch of him in the margins wasn't half bad. He didn't see hide nor tail of the mysterious boss however, but that was only to be expected. On the other hand, he did have a reliable headcount of the people inside that did not match up to the numbers of take out meals that was just being taken in. The difference was exactly one and Sherlock would bet his violin that meal had John Watson's name on it.

Well now, if they were feeding him, he was still alive. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he reluctantly let it, because this was another success and proof of his brilliance... not because of the relief he felt at the news. That would be too sentimental. He didn't do sentiments. He didn’t  _ want _ to do sentiments.

Oh, dear.

He's gotten attached to the man in the diaries, hadn't he? Not even a real person. Not really. But maybe that was why, and he was bound to be disappointed by the person in the flesh when he reached him, so… his little predicament would solve itself in the end? 

If he wanted to save himself, he had to save John Watson, so he could prove to be the disappointment everyone turned out to be.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock sent a message to Mycroft with the address, then put his phone on silent. He would understand the short text. However, Sherlock would not wait for the Mycroft's people. John’s chances of survival were significantly higher if Sherlock got to him first. The cavalry would merely give them a distraction and increase their chances to make it out of there alive. Mycroft would be livid too, which was always a bonus. Sherlock would bet his brother was angry-texting right now, or worse, calling.

Sherlock soon infiltrated the fake electronic repair shop without raising any alarms. Between the dust and out of date equipment, it was no wonder no one ventured in, but it was also a red flag for anyone who bothered to  _ think  _ about it. The shop was an obvious front for something else.

And dust was a magnificent thing, footprints leaving a clear trail to follow which led Sherlock to the backdoor. Listening carefully, he cracked the door open and finally moved onward to a much cleaner and modern complex. From here however… Sounds of laughter and cutlery informed him where everyone else would be, but John would presumably be locked up somewhere else. The Colonel reappeared around the corner with a single Styrofoam box in hand. Of course. Sherlock only had to follow the breadcrumbs like that idiotic children's story. When the large man reached his destination, Sherlock had no choice but to hide in the closest room. A bedroom as it turned out, rather sparse and smelling of socks. On the bright side, it meant these people had simply grounded John in his own bedroom like misbehaving child. In fact, the Colonel was scolding him right now.

"Be reasonable, John. We're all counting on you. You can't flake on us right now for someone you don't even know."

A pause. Sherlock strained his ear, but if John was saying anything, he couldn't hear.

"You know Jim is not going to be happy about this. He's taken you in, given you all you ever wanted, and this is how you thank him? I can only protect you so much..."

A harsh laugh sent a jolt through Sherlock's body. This was  _ him _ . John. The first sound he heard out of the doctor. He was  _ so _ close.

"It could be a lot worse," the Colonel said somberly before leaving, slamming the door behind him before turning the key.

Sherlock waited for the heavy footfalls to vanish down the hall. If they were all busy eating down the hall together, Sherlock had more than enough time to free the doctor and whisk him away from right under their noses. He slipped into the hallway, hating being out in the open like that, but exhilarated at the thought that behind this flimsy door was the one and only John Watson. His lock pick made quick work of the lock, the bedroom having never been meant as a cell. Heart pounding almost painfully, Sherlock turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

Then, he was ashamed to say, he froze. He had thought of all manners of witty things to say upon meeting the man he knew so intimately from his diaries, but he had not been prepared for the sight that greeted him: John, without a doubt, hair tousled and wearing only his briefs, signs of struggle, or more likely, a beating, visible on his face and body. As if that wasn't enough to make Sherlock angry, the chains that kept John prisoner, tied to the post of his bed, enslaved, infuriated him… and yet, there he was, struggling to stand, to defend himself against the intruder. Him.

"I-"

_ Be witty, Sherlock. Be brilliant. _

Sherlock coughed to clear his throat, tried to make himself look smaller, less menacing.

"Your sister sent me," he finally said.

As far as first words went, those were terrible. Sherlock bit his lip, feeling like an awkward teenager all over again. Picking a more suitable lock pick, Sherlock gestured towards the chains keeping him prisoner and John shifted to accommodate him.

"Harry?" John croaked, his voice raw with either disuse or emotion.

"Do you have another delightful sister I should avoid?"

John snorted.

_ Better _ , Sherlock congratulated himself. The padlock fell and John shook off the chains as if they physically hurt him. Sherlock caught them at the last second before they could fall to the ground and alert the nearby diners, earning himself a funny look from John which immediately turned into wide-eyed horror.

"Don't tell me you're here alone?"

"I work better on my own," Sherlock said truthfully.

"Are you  _ completely _ out of your mind? Do you have  _ any _ idea who these people are?" John hissed.

"I know they're not far and will be done eating in about ten minutes. Get dressed. You're distracting."

"What?"

Sherlock froze once more. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Well, you can't very well go out in public like that," he blurred out.

What was wrong with him? Hzfbhr list control of his mind as well as his tongue? John, meanwhile, stared at him but complied, pulling a beat up tee-shirt over his head, then joggers and trainers, all in less than a minute. Sherlock was impressed, although he had a fleeting thought whether the man undressed as quickly as he dressed.

"Now what?" John asked.

"We leave the way I came in."

"Which is?"

"I sneaked in using the front door."

"You really are crazy," John muttered before following him out, copying his every movement as swiftly, quietly and perfectly as a shadow.

Sherlock was still waiting for John Watson to disappoint him, but so far, he was thinking of kidnapping the man for himself, which was a bit not good, he was sure, but it's not like the good doctor had any place better to go. He didn't even count his drunkard of a sister. Her place was bound to be messy and cluttered-

_ Just like Baker Street, _ a snide voice added in the back of his mind.

"Hey!" someone called out behind them

"Fuck," John muttered.

Sherlock blamed them being discovered on his distracted mind. Also, it had only been five minutes. Did this man  _ not chew _ his food? Stepping in front of John, Sherlock threw his lock pick at the other man just as he was about to call out for his friends. He hit the bullseye, making him choke on the metal picks instead. But it wasn't enough. Two more men piled out of the mess hall, their surprise turning to anger.

"Any more brilliant ideas?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced at him.

"Is that sarcasm?" he asked curiously, unable to read him in that moment, but needing to know in case it was a compliment.

"Does it really matter?" John snapped before doing something quite interesting to his former colleague's wrist. "We have to leave.  _ Now!" _

Sherlock punched the other man's adam's apple, who reeled back, holding his throat as he choked. They hurried to pass them, but the door opened again and this time the Colonel walked out, took stock of the situation and had them a gunpoint before they could take cover. Sherlock could see John's eyes darting around, looking for a way out, for a weapon… desperate not to be in chains again. Sherlock raised his hands.

"Who the  _ fuck _ are you?" the Colonel demanded.

"You don't know? Interesting." Sherlock replied. 

He thought if they were planning to get rid of Mycroft, his brother would have made at least a blip on their radar. Sherlock almost felt offended at the slight. The Colonel motionned for them to return the way they had come but Sherlock didn't budge. He needed to buy a little more time.

"I don't think so, Colonel. We have places to go, people to see. We'll just be on our way now, if you don't mind."

The Colonel looked at him like he was crazy. So was John. But they would understand soon enough. Maybe that would dazzle John. Maybe he would write about  _ him _ in his diary next.

"Besides, you're about to receive guests. We wouldn't want to impose."

"Guests?" the Colonel repeated before shaking his head. "Nevermind, just-"

A loud thud echoed in the hallway. All their gazes turned towards the door leading to the fake shop. The Colonel then glared at him, but Sherlock grinned back. Everything was going according to plan. Mycroft's men could have arrived thirty seconds earlier and it would have been perfect, but John seemed suitably impressed, even more so when the Colonel made a run for the back of the building.

"We'd better follow him," Sherlock told the doctor, grabbing his forearm to tug him along.

"Why? Just let him get away," John replied, pulling back.

Sherlock stopped to look John in the eye, to make sure he got his meaning across.

"You misunderstand, John. I don't care if he gets away. However, I don't want you to get caught up in all this mess and end up under the government's scrutiny. Who knows where you'll end up?"

He shuddered at the thought of Mycroft taking an interest in the good doctor. He would, too, the twat. He always enjoyed taking his things. 

Shots fired behind them seemed to decide the doctor more than anything Sherlock had said, and they ran until they found daylight, the Colonel having left an emergency exit door ajar. Sherlock peered out, but there was no ambush waiting for them, so they hightailed it out of there. Sherlock flagged down a cab and pushed John inside first before giving the driver his address on Baker Street. John didn't object. He seemed in a bit of a shock, if he had to guess. Could be the realisation he had unexpectedly escaped a desperate situation, safe and sound, finally dawned. In any case, he didn't say a word until they were standing in the middle of 221B.

"Okay. Sorry, but where is this? Why are we here? And who are you exactly, for that matter? I known you said Harry sent you, but I'd hardly call that a proper introduction."

"Ah, right. Your sister. You should probably text her you've been found. Save me the hassle."

Sherlock offered John his phone, which he took after a slight hesitation, dialling a number from memory.

_ Calling _ .  _ Urgh _ .  _ One of  _ those  _ people. _

"Hey, Harry."

A scream came from the other end of the line. Sherlock cringed, but John had a fond sort of smile playing about his lips.

"I guess. He didn't exactly introduce himself. Tall bloke, completely mutters, but kind of brilliant at the same time?"

John shot him a glance with that same alien smile he had for his sister, while Sherlock was hard pressed not to preen.

_ Brilliant! He called me brilliant! _

Then John shifted around so Sherlock could only see a sliver of his face.

"About the bill, you let me take care of that. Thanks, Harry. I owe you one."

He turned around, looking embarrassed, and handed him back his phone. Sherlock pocketed it, then held out his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, I gathered. I don't think I need to introduce myself."

"No," Sherlock replied as he took the notebooks out from his coat's large pocket. "I know everything about you."

"And you're  _ not _ handing me over to the police why exactly? If you've read those… Aren't you a detective?"

"A consulting detective. I only work for the Yard on occasion, I don't owe them anything."

"Ah, yes. Speaking of. The bill…"

Sherlock scowled. If he let John pay for his services right now, he would be on his merry way and they might never meet again. Sherlock couldn't let him go. Fortunately, he had the perfect idea to keep him close. Very close.

"Actually, given the situation, if you're amenable, I'd like you to pay for my services by offering yours in exchange."

"I hope you mean as a doctor. It didn't go so well for me the last time I was hired for my other skills as you well know."

"Neither, actually. I need your help to stop your former employer."

John blanched.

"You really are completely nutters. Why would you want to do that? We're lucky we made it out of there in one piece, and that  _ he _ wasn't there. He's even more nuts than you are! So...why?"

"Several reasons, actually," Sherlock said smugly, because he could find enough good reasons without giving him the real one. 

Sherlock took off his coat, throwing it over the sofa. He then took a few steps towards the kitchen to make tea for his guest before realising he had used his boiler to heat an experiment. Now that he thought about it, he had used all his tea for a similar purpose.

"Mrs Hudson!" he called instead, knowing she had to be eavesdropping from somewhere since he had brought someone over, which was, he had to admit, a first.

"Tea?" she piped up from the stairs right outside the door.

"Indeed," he agreed with a roll of his eyes.

She was probably imagining all sorts of erroneous things. With any luck, she would share them in front of John, so he could gauge his interest. 

For now, John gave him an unimpressed look, but he did sit down, making himself at home, hopefully.

"First," Sherlock continued, lifting one finger. "It hardly feels like I've solved the case your sister entrusted me with if I don't stop the man responsible."

John opened his mouth, to protest no doubt, so Sherlock lifted a second finger.

"You also mentioned in your diary-"

"Notebook," John corrected with a slight blush colouring the tip of his ears.

"Notebook," Sherlock agreed easily. "The target you mentioned, the man you drew, I can't let that assassination plot go through, whether you're a part of it or not."

"You know him?" John asked in surprise before frowning. "Is he someone famous?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "He's my brother."

"Your…" 

John's eyes were comically round, his eyebrows far up his forehead. So expressive. Sherlock wondered what other faces he could make.

"Jesus. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock shrugged.

"He's used to it."

"It's a bloody good reason though. Were there more?" John asked as Sherlock raised a third finger.

Sherlock grinned.

"It's fun! I always liked a challenge."

John laughed and called him a nutter again, but it was said with such fondness that he didn't even mind. The most important reason Sherlock kept to himself however. After all, how could he tell John he was in danger now, when he had already been through so much? His old crowd would want retribution, this boss of his most if all for sabotaging his plans and getting a group of his men arrested. The only way to keep John safe until he stopped his former employer was to keep him here, under his protection. 

Mrs Hudson arrived just then with a platter of tea and biscuits, and she just happened to ask if John was here for the flatshare. Such an innocent question, not that she let him deny it, inundating him instead with selling arguments as to why this flatshare was such a great opportunity. It was so easy to reel in the poor doctor with her help that Sherlock only had to sit back and enjoy the show until John agreed to become his new roommate, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  
  



End file.
